Mrs Nobody

I know a funny little woman,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done,

In my humble house!

Oh, how she loves to scatter things,

When I’m on a cleaning spree.

And makes sure the phone rings,

To watch me harrowed, with glee!

She makes the utensils jump down,

From the cupboards up overhead,

Startling my new guests in town,

Who rush to save my head.

She likes to haunt my closets too,

And ransacks it into a mess.

Therefore, It’s a terrible woe,

To find a fine, decent dress!

The monster laundry glares at me,

For she piles it high and mighty!

And makes sure I’m never free

To blog or chat away idly!

She drops hair and stains the kitchen,

For me to clean and fix.

Oh how I curse the naughty vixen,

But she loves her little tricks.

As I try to make the chapati round,

She leaves the tap running.

At times, I hear the alarm’s sound,

And rush to see what’s burning!

I don’t know how she does that,

But the house key goes missing,

Whenever we have to go out,

For some fun and fishing.

Despite, all the trouble folks,

I kinda love the dear lady.

She sure knows how to make us laugh,

And things often end in comedy.

“Oh, o, you must be better organized,”

Remarks my loving Honey,

But he doesn’t believe when I say,

“It isn’t me, it’s MRS NOBODY.”

(Inspired by the great poem – Mr Nobody, one of my favorites, written by an anonymous poet. Do you also have a Mrs Nobody in your house?)

Images courtesy Google

The Onset of Autumn

Notice how the leaves of this tree are changing colour! This lovely tree, located right in front of my apartment, announces the onset of Autumn every year. Soon, Minnesota will deck up for a colouful and breathtaking Fall.

And this announcer tree will turn a glorious red at the peak of the season and will look like this – see pic below. (Clicked last Fall.)

How well John Keats said – Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run….

Ah, bliss!

Four Seasons through my window!

Last year, I vowed to capture the beauty of Four Seasons through the window of my house in order to blog it for your enjoyment. Today, on a warm summer day, I finally got all the four pictures.

Summer made the outside world look like this.


When it was Spring…


When it was Fall…

When it was Winter…

Did the music of Four Seasons touch your heart? I hope, it did!

The Poetry of Earth is not dead yet!

As we drove into the gorgeous Arboretum, one of the top visitor attractions of Minnesota, US, my heart skipped a beat. It was a beautiful sunny day to explore gardens, sculptures, woodlands, walkways and trails. 


Smell, touch, feel, sights and sounds of nature filled our senses as all shades of green interspersed with colours dominated the landscape. Minnesota is more than glorious in Summers after savage and challenging winters, it is stunning!


Such sublime sights always inspires poetry in a lover of literature. Therefore, I couldn’t help chanting some famous lines by great nature poets.

Do check out the pictures, dear confidantes, and may be you can recite the poetic lines too…


When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging down…. Robert Frost


Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!–A little while I stood… William Wordsworth


Never mind silent fields— Here is a little forest, Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been… Emily Dickinson


Yet, if you enter the woods, Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ring’d pools ,Where the otter whistles his mate… Rudyard Kipling


Hot midsummer’s petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tune, Telling of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers… RW Emerson

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run, From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead… John Keats


I couldn’t help thinking as we took the exit to Arboretum that nature still dwells in some places on Earth. It hasn’t taken leave of mankind as yet!

The Solitary Reaper sang of Loneliness!

  

Dear Mr William Wordsworth,

If you were alive today, I would present this letter to you in person. It concerns your timeless ballad, “The Solitary Reaper”. I gather that you created this classic wonder while observing a farm girl reaping  in the fields and singing a Gaelic song. 

The poem says that you were not able to decipher the content of her song because of the language but you could feel the ‘melancholic strain’ in the lyrics. 

In the course of your poem, you make guesses regarding her deep melancholy. 
Was she sad for old…far-off…unhappy things? Or was it for battles, familiar matters? Or perhaps for natural sorrow, loss or pain…?

But you overlooked one big reason for her sadness that was so evident – her solitude! In that big corn field, she was intimidated by her job of reaping, overwhelmed by the enveloping solitude, and helpless due to the lack of human companionship.

The highland lass was so alone… doing cutting and reaping, all by herself. I could not help suggesting Sir, that if you would have stopped and not ‘gently passed’ by her, she would have felt better in your company. But I think you have had your reasons.

  
Her melancholic song resonates even today everywhere…because most of us are solitary. We look for friends in the big virtual world but all is artificial there. The touch, feel and presence of family and friends cannot be compensated with messages, jokes and ‘connectivity’. 
In the real world, we are growing private, we have trust issues while making friends and we have embraced isolation rather than staying ‘in touch’ physically. We are afraid of going out in order to save ourselves from hurt. We are trapped trying to ‘touch’ others through mobile screens rather than fingers.

Even if we summon our courage and cry out, very few hear as everyone is looking and listening to their phones.

Alone we are “cutting and binding the grain”, and there is no one to listen to our “melancholy strain”. So guess, our plight is worst than the solitary reaper! She had you to applaud her Sir, we have no one.

If I were to meet you in person, I would urge you to write on “our solitary generation” too. But this time you would know the reason for the ‘melancholic strain’ in our lives. I really and truly wish you were here today to sing of our solitude.

I thank you profusely for this poem and applaud its relevance even in our world.

I beg to remain, Sir, your most humble and obedient admirer.
Images courtesy google